


Chrysanthemum

by gloom_and_doom



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Nico di Angelo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nico di Angelo Angst, No Smut, POV Nico di Angelo, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, also there will be some headcanons i added for characters, and progresses to the events of the books, and the gang and will have to save his ass, basically nico gets himself in trouble every damn time, i have no idea i'm just figuring this out as i write, i think, in 1942, it won't follow canon because i'm writing this in Nico's pov, like literally - Freeform, there will be OCs but they won't play major roles, they’re teens you horny fuckers, this takes place in italy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:02:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29215374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloom_and_doom/pseuds/gloom_and_doom
Summary: It's quite hard to live your life as a ten year old in 1942, Italy. Especially when you're a demigod running away from the wrath of your uncle, Zeus.(Basically Percy Jackson in Nico's POV, starting from his life before the events of the series)
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Bianca di Angelo & Nico di Angelo, Maria di Angelo/Hades, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Nico di Angelo & Everyone, Nico di Angelo & Grover Underwood, Nico di Angelo & Hades, Nico di Angelo & Percy Jackson, Nico di Angelo/Will Solace, except from solangelo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	1. Stranger Danger, I Take a Flower

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Gore(minor), police, hinted panic attack(minor)
> 
> Sorry if pre-Bianca's death Nico is kind of OOC, I'm not used to writing in 1st person POV. It'll get better as the story progresses, I swear lol.
> 
> Also there may be some mistakes as English is not my first language.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger saves me from becoming a juvenile and gives me a flower alongside some mail. All I wanted to do was to walk home alone.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way, there was and there was not.

And if Bianca was here, she would’ve probably called me out on the fact that I just took that paragraph from a Charles Dickens book.

Alas, it’s a Monday and Bianca is still at school; my classes ended early today, as expected, since Bianca is older than me and has more classes. I’ll probably get reprimanded by her, what with the dangers of walking all the way home alone and all, but I’m not a kid anymore. I can walk home alone. Sure, she doesn’t even walk alone herself, but that’s because she gets out of school later, just before sunset. Everyone knows how dangerous it is after sunset in 1942, Italy.

At least that’s what I think as I pass by buildings and houses with a grin and a jump to my steps, red poppies flowing in the wind as if dancing alongside my now-messy hair and school bag, slung over my shoulders, and people looking around discreetly as if they’re expecting to be murdered in broad daylight.

I wouldn’t blame them.

Though I would love to dwell on that matter for longer, my hair, probably too long for my liking, flows with the wind and narrows down my vision, sitting like a bird’s nest on top of my eyes. I pause on my steps, hands going up to fiddle with the dark hair and get it out of my line of vision – accidentally hitting my face. Since when was it this windy? Despite the serene sun beating down on me and warming up the top of my head, the wind is merciless and the chills running down my spine don’t make the matter any better. _You shouldn’t have worn short sleeves, it’s February_ , says a sweet voice in my head, sounding too much like Bianca.

Being reminded of my sister, guilt washes over me: what if something happens to her while she walks home? Sure, it’s safe for me to walk alone, but she walks right before sunset; what if something happens to her when I’m gone, not there to keep her safe?

I stay in place, in the middle of the road for a few more seconds before the decision is made: I’ll walk back to school. I couldn’t risk something happening to my sister just because I wanted to prove myself to her. Holding the strips of my bag tight and a determined expression washing over my face – Bianca always talks about how exaggerated my facial expressions are – I turn back and march down the road…

…Only to bump into something. _Someone._

A little whoosh emits from the wind as I fall down with the brute force of the impact.

‘Ow.’

Looking up to meet the culprit’s eyes I’m met with a set of brown eyes similar to mine. And the culprit’s police suit. It’s a police.

 _Oddio_. I’m in trouble.

Everyone knows you cannot mess with the police. Not in this period of time; not now, not ever. They’ll do bad things to you. It’s what Bianca says.

I don’t even realize the man is talking until he hauls me, holding both of my elbows with such strength that it’s sure to leave a bruise. His hands clasped around me, as if daring me to move, he looks me in the eye with such scrutiny I feel my knees wobble under the pressure. Feeling small and unsafe, I try to back away; he presses harder on my elbows. In the afternoon of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of danger, even the now-empty streets and the pretty poppies I came to love. I imagine my blood sprayed on them, being camouflaged by the already-red color of the flowing flowers.

The man shakes me out of my thoughts, harshly. I’m met with his eyes again and just then realize the mass of other policemen behind him. With my hazy mind, I can’t count them, but I know that there are enough that I won’t be able to fight all of them; I try anyway, thrashing in his hold, ending up hitting the policeman on the face. He only holds me tighter.

‘ _Un ragazzo,_ what are you doing here?’ Though it should have been a question, it sounds more like a demand coming out of his mouth. I tense up. He repeats his question in a hiss, tightening his hold. Mutters and mumbles emerge from the mass of men in the back, smiles and snickers from some, scowls from the others; I catch some words of what they are discussing: ‘ _Un_ _imbecile_ \- Mussolini- boy.‘

Another harsh shake from the man, another sneer, a mumble coming out of my mouth I don’t even hear, the bloody poppies-

‘ _Madonna_ , do we have a problem here, _signore?’_

The man’s neck snaps up with a’ pop’; his eyes became slits, like having a staring competition with the owner of the gruff voice. When he lets go of me, I don’t even realize how hard he had been holding my elbows, but with my panic subsided I can very clearly feel the skin swelling up. There are already bruises planted on my skin. I want to punch the guy.

Hurling myself back, out of reach from the mean man, I look towards my savior.

The man in question doesn’t even glance at me, looking down, literally, on the much shorter policeman - or maybe he was just abnormally tall. His long, dark hair doesn’t even move an inch in the wavering wind and his crimson red eyes look like they’re on fire; I can’t tell whether it’s because of the sun or not. His black, silky, very-rich-looking suit has a wilted white flower in its pocket, contrasting to his unhealthy-looking grey skin; in short, he looks very out of place in the empty street, and his ugly sneer and enraged expression, by the looks of it, is enough to intimidate the policemen, as they don’t stop me when I back away further.

‘ _Chi cazzo sei tu_? This is our business, stay out of it.’ The policeman sneers.

The expression on the man’s face darkens, accentuating his sharp features. I stay transfixed, unable to move; he gives off a sense of familiarity. ‘Why _, un bullo e sempre un codardo_. Leave the boy alone. He is of none of your concern.’

I watch as the man steps closer to the policemen, no hesitation to his steps, I watch as they finally come face-to-face, I watch the man’s back as the policeman’s eyes widen in horror, I watch, I watch and I watch as the policeman scrambles to get away, dashing with the others hot on his tail. I watch; I watched.

And suddenly it’s only me and the man in the suit.

He slowly turns to look at me and it’s as if the feeling of danger was never there to begin with; instead, the atmosphere becomes awkward. We both stare at each other, me craning my neck to look him in the face and at his fire colored eyes that change hues every second under the warm sun. Finally managing a smile, I beam up at him and wave.

‘Thank you, _signore_! How did you do that? Scare the man into running away, I mean.’

A look of recognition fades into his face, though the frown is still there. A feeling of familiarity washes over me, why, that I do not know. Blurry images of a familiar suit make themselves known in my mind, never the face, just the suit and the red, _red_ eyes. Do I know this guy?

While I’m trapped in my own thoughts, I hear him ask, ‘What is your name, boy?’ Then, as if realizing a mistake, this is Italy, after all, he repeats his question, ‘ _Come ti chiami?’_

‘Nico.’

‘Di Angelo?’ This takes me by surprise.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘Do you know my mother?’ He pauses.

‘Yes. Family friend.’

‘Oh?’

He gazes at me curiously, ‘ _Sei cresciuto bene_. Your English has gotten better, too.’

‘Thank you,’ I smile wholeheartedly, showing my teeth this time. He doesn’t return the gesture, instead continuing to talk with his funny Italian accent.

‘ _Si, bene_. What were those man doing with you?

‘ _Niente_ , nothing; _Non preoccuparti!_ They were just policemen; their patrols have become stricter with the approaching war.’

Just as I utter out the word ‘war’, the man’s face darkens, the atmosphere sharpening. ‘ _Imbecilli_ ,’ he hisses, eyes darkening; it takes me by surprise.

‘Si, _signore_ ,’ then I ask, ‘What is _your_ name? I already told you mine, it’s only fair you return the gesture.’

‘ _Non_ _importa_. Now,’ he takes out an envelope out of his pocket, the white flower in it falling in the process; he doesn’t pick it up. ‘Nico, I need you to give this to Maria.’

‘You regard her with her name, do you know her well?’ I ignore the fact that he used my nickname.

‘ _Si_. Give this to her,’ he put the envelope in my hand and his expression darkened, ‘Do not open it.’

I nodded, ‘ _Io lo faro!’_

 _'Certimante._ ’ He muttered, before he took a step back, ‘ _Bene allora_. I will be taking my leave now. Give the envelope to your mother, Nico.’

He turns back and leaves. I feel my smile wavering, my heart beating in my ears; it scares me; my hearts constant hunger for whatever it wants, the way it beats and stops. Now, it beats ferociously, no sign of stopping; whilst the wind dies down, the sun starting to slowly dip down into the horizon. When it had been so late, I don’t know. All I know is that the same poppies I imagined my blood to be on earlier now look beautiful, glistening under the soft yet warm light of the sun, the same color of the red eyed man.

Just then, something white catches my eye: the flower. The man had dropped it.

Slowly, I walk closer and pick it up with my free hand, softly. The flower was wilted. _Flowers protect you, Nico: when someone curses upon you, flowers protect you, taking the damage themselves; it is why they wilt, tesoro,_ my mother’s voice echoes in my head. I thank the flower.

I turn to its owner, calling out, ‘ _Signore_?’

The man turns back, his expression dark and uninviting.

‘Your flower. You dropped it.’

The man looks down at the flower softly plucked between my fingers –I didn’t want to hurt it; I had a tendency to hurt and make flowers wilt, subconsciously. I don’t realize the man is walking towards me until he’s right up at my face. He bends down, getting on one knee, then, pushes the hand holding the flower towards my chest.

‘Keep it.’

The dipped sun illuminates all the edges of his face, his flaming eyes. They look a lot like my chestnut ones.

‘It is a Chrysanthemum. It was a gift given to me; now, it is yours.’

He stands back up straight and walks away, disappears. I watch as he does so.

‘Thank you.’

As I stare at his retreating figure, a voice, one I hadn’t heard before, whispers in my ear: _he radiates death._

Maybe I should’ve walked home with Bianca after all.


	2. MY FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD GHOST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendly neighborhood ghost detests my flowers and mama burns some mails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mentions/implications of death.

‘ _Oddio_ , Nico! You can’t just swing your hands and go home by yourself. What if that man had not have been there?’

‘He was, though…’

Bianca heaves a sigh, her hand going up to mess with her hair only to realize that she’s wearing a hat. It’s a green hat, matching the green jumper she’s wearing; she pulls the hat to rest on top of her eyes. I move to grab it, but she quickly moves out of my reach. How can she see with it in the way?

I shake my head and clear my thoughts, ‘Plus, look! He gave me a flower.’

She looks at the white, wilted flower plucked between my fingers as I shake it in front of her face; the Chrysanmum, or whatever its name is. It’s too much of a mouthful, I’ll probably ask mama on it; she’s great with flowers. Bianca says I take my flower-obsession from her.

‘A Chrysanthemum…’ she whispers, and I wouldn’t have heard it if the wind hadn’t carried it to my ears.

‘Yeah. How did you know? Do you reckon mama has it back at home? I want to plant it there.’ I quickly ramble as I shake the flower more. An odd look fades into her face and I stop shaking the flower.

‘Bi, _Che c’e?_ ’

She shakes her head, ‘ _Niente, niente_ , Nico.’

As the sunset brings the promise of a new dawn, orange and red clash with the overcoming darkness of the night and the invariant equatorial brought an aura of nostalgia to the soon evening. I cross my hands over my chest, which was now covered by a sweater Bianca gave me once we met up - _You shouldn’t have worn short sleeves, it’s February_ , she had said. The sweater was the one Bianca always took to school with her on particularly chilly days – I had knitted it for her last winter, though it wasn’t big enough for her, so she opted to letting me wear it instead.

As we walked, the flame colored sky resembled that of the stranger I had met just a mere ten minutes ago and I couldn’t help but search for the envelope in my pocket. One hand on the mail, the other on the flower, I walked in front of Bianca and under the hazy evening glow.

I didn’t mention the fact that Bianca hadn’t answered my questions about the flower for the rest of our walk.

***

Once we get home, I’m greeted with a sight I did not wish to see for another few days. Maybe never.

There, sitting around our dining table, next to mama, is our neighbor, Mrs. Miloslav.

Now, you ask _, Nico, What’s so wrong with Mrs. Miloslav?_ The answer to that is nothing. Nothing’s wrong with Mrs. Milo; sure, she sometimes gets too caught on her thoughts and starts rambling, but everyone does that. No, it’s her daughter I’m worried about.

‘Bianca, Niccolo! My, it’s been so long since I’ve last seen you. _Come sei sato_? You’ve gotten taller, Bianca!’ she shrieks with enthusiasm in her broken Italian, and I can’t help but smile.

‘ _Bene_ , Mrs Milo.’ I say, too busy with kicking off my shoes to get sheepish about the usage of my full name. Bianca mutters out a greeting, scurrying off to our joined bedroom. I meet my mama’s eyes, getting lost in her chocolate colored eyes and welcoming smile.

My mama, Maria Di Angelo, is the best person you’ll ever have the chance to meet in your life; gentle, kind, the human version of the sun, basically. Despite all the difficulties she has faced, she still loves me and Bianca dearly. She’s home, to me.

‘What were you talking about?’ I ask.

‘Ahh… This _uomo_ – if you can even call him that - I met in the grocery store. He had a boyfriend! _Fidanzato_! Can you believe that?’ Mrs. Milo tuts. ‘These days, people just do whatever they want. Let’s hope they don’t go to Mussolini’s ear…’ she mutters’ my mom pets my head as if to distract me from what she said and Mrs. Milo’s eyes widen. I remember the policeman, how he held me, and rub my elbows, slightly hugging myself.

‘Sometimes I forget you’re only ten, Niccolo! Go, _ragazzo dolce_. Play in the living room.’ Mrs. Milo tells me kindly and I oblige – after hugging mama, of course. Alas, before I set foot out the room, a certain envelope embraces my mind; the envelope to mama.

I turn back, tugging the material out from my bag – I had put it in there so Bianca wouldn’t question me about why I had a strange envelope – and walk hurriedly to mama, avoiding Mrs, Milo’s curious gaze. ‘For you, mama.’

‘ _Cuore Mio_? What’s this?’ She examines the big envelope in her hands, softly, much like how I held my new flower. Then, her eyes widened, staring right at the stamp closing the envelope. It was red, as red as the poppies and the Chrysanthemum man’s eyes, and had a weird symbol on it. The address on the front was hard to read, the letters tangling with each other and making it impossible to do so. Though, by the looks of it, mama recognized it, as her face morphed into an unreadable expression, and her hands tightened around the envelope.

‘ _E per te._ He didn’t tell me his name, but said that I should deliver this to you. He’s a family friend.’

Mama, as if came out of her trance, carefully put the envelope on the counter, away from Mrs. Milo’s curious gaze. ‘ _Certimante, Tesoro_. Now, don’t worry about it, alright? Your dandelions are waiting for you in the living room. C’mon, _amore_.’

As if the letter aged her ten years, mama suddenly looks old; tired. My heart ached; maybe I shouldn’t have given her the mail, after all. As to not sadden her further, I oblig with one last peck on her forehead, walking out of the kitchen and into the corridor.

We live in a one story house, small yet big enough for all of us. The door is infrequently used, as Bianca and I always come in the house through the large kitchen window where mama always greets us. As I pass by the small corridor filled with vases, the wooden door of the living room greets me. I enter he living room…

…And am met with the sight of Edina Miloslav plucking out my flowers.

I rush in, quick to grab her hands and pull her away from the dandelions that are now lacking their leaves and petals. Edina snatches her hands away from mine, and I feel a blow to the backside of my head. I return the gesture.

‘Why would you do that?’

‘ _Stupido, stupido, stupido_! They were ugly anyway.’

At this moment, I wonder how Mrs. Milo and her daughter are even related. Despite her mother’s kindness and fondness, Edina is filled with hatred – especially towards my flowers, which she destroys in any way possible whenever the two come over. I don’t know why she was like this – ever since the day I had met her, she had been rude and violent in the worst ways. She had destroyed my tulips last time, and now my only dandelions. I push her away.

‘Why would you do that?’ I repeat in a hiss. She merely chants _‘stupido’_ over and over again.

With a sigh, I ignore her and slump on the floor, looking down at the now-destroyed dandelions, once the color of the sun. Will my Chrysanthemum also end up like this? ‘Stop calling me that. You’re _stupida_.’

I look back at Edina and her enraged expression, and she takes a few threatening steps forward, ready to strike me, I straighten my back – she ruined my flowers many times before, I wasn’t going to let her get away with this.

Then, her eyes rake over me and stop at the carpet I was sitting on, a triumph smirk on her face. Everything happened in slow motion as she threw herself on me, both of us lying on the carpet, and reach forward to grab something in my hand.

My Chrysanthemum.

The white, wilted flower was grabbed harshly in her hand, a petal falling off. ‘No!’ Edina lurched backwards and dashed out of the room, me in tow as we raced in the house, her giggling like a lunatic and me shouting. The raced continued to the kitchen, to Mrs. Milo’s alarmed gaze and mama’s curious one. Edine hid behind her mom, still laughing.

‘She took my flower!’

‘ _Tesoro_ , what do you mean? Who took your flower?’ mamma said.

‘Edina! She took my flower!’

The atmosphere changes instantly. Most people describe such a moment with a package deal of emotions; hot tears, grief and depression. Alas this was not the case.

It never was.

Simply: the world stopped moving. Nothing moving and no one talking, a pause in the universe as if it were a mere movie clip. _Oddio_ , the irony. I felt sick in the stomach.

And suddenly, the world started turning again, spinning like a ball in such a velocity the world shook, and I could swear I heard the sound of lightning somewhere in the distance. Or maybe that was just my imagination as I watched mama’s eyes widen and Mrs. Milo’s face scrunch into shock – into fear and misery.

She wailed.

With a quick motion, she is up in her seat, hurrying out of the house, mama hot on her tail as she hugged Mrs. Milo, giving her some words of comfort I don’t hear. Edina looks around alarmed, just as confused as me.

Before Edina can even question what’s going on, Mrs. Milo is in her shoes, scurrying out the door with fresh, hot tears running down her cheeks and a side glance to me and mama. Edina now looks panicked, as she doesn’t even try to pick up the flower she dropped, instead going after her mama. She yells; her mama doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look her daughter in the eyes, her yells falling on deaf ears. She’s already out the door by the time Edina has reached her.

‘Edina?’ she doesn’t answer me as both Miloslavs are out the door, away from the house. The pale crescent moon shone like a silvery claw in the night sky, the blanket of stars stretched to infinity – or maybe they didn’t. You can never know for sure. Just like right now and how I don’t know what’s going on or what just went down. All I know is that the beautiful night sky looks like it’s taunting us.

I look at mama; her eyes are already on me. ‘Mama?’

She gets out of her trance, focusing on my face. Instantly, her chestnut eyes – same as mine – soften, her kneeling to my eye level; a hand on my cheek, a brush of lips against my hair.’ ‘ _Tesoro_ …’

‘What just happened?’

Mama’s gaze softened even more, impossibly so. This was Maria Di Angelo; gentle and generous, gaze always soft and welcoming, warm. She was home; to me, my home was mama, her soft hands and embraces, her beauty and grace, her caring words. Her expression saddened.

‘Who were you playing with, _tesoro_?’

Confused, ‘Edina? Mrs. Milo’s daughter?’

‘Ah.’

Her expression changed into something I couldn’t decipher, as she worriedly brushed her hands through my hair. The act calmed me down. ‘Mama?’

‘Don’t worry about it, Niccolo. Everything’s alright, Tesoro.’ I nodded. The twinkling stars were reflected in mama’s eyes, as her eyes turned to the images of millions of stars. They needn’t have, as mama’s eyes already resembled that of a star.

‘It’s getting late,’ she started, the crescent moon a glow on her face. She looked like a goddess.

_And perhaps, in another universe, she was._

‘Go to sleep, _tesoro_.’ Another soft peck on my cheek.

*** 

Bianca Di Angelo had a permanent scowl on her face. She was solemn, sedate and serious, the flowers; dandelions and daffodils blooming in the spring, with the promise of beauty and peace, and Bianca would still have the same grave expression. With her scowl, her deep frown etched on her face, she almost reminded me of the man with the Chysanthemum I had met.

That’s why I liked sharing a room with my sister.

Evenings would fall, nights full of stars; beautiful, shining stars waiting to be looked at, and I would still look at Bianca; at her tranquil, harmoniously lenient face, at how peaceful my sister looked, without the pressure of others and the oncoming of harsh days.

I needn’t look at stars as Bianca was already one.

Some nights. I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Nightmares would invade my mind – strange ones, at that; of swords clashing, rivers flowing with the flowers near them, skeletons rising from the earth, and twelve thrones in a giant. I could never explain them: what they were about, why I even had them in the first place. I didn’t know, either.

At first, they bothered me, scared me, even. Alas, when I woke up in the dead of the night, to the serene face of my sister, everything was okay. There were no nightmares, no one-eyed monsters under my bed; just Bianca; Bianca.

Lately, the nightmares had gotten more frequent, and just by the way my stomach clenched as I entered my bedroom, closing the door after me – giving a last glance to mama, I knew this starry night was going to be full of them.

However, when I entered the room, Bianca was wide awake, laying down on her bed, staring at nothing.

‘Bi?’

She sat up so fast I heard her back cracking, looking right at me; she looked alarmed, the constant rise and fall of her body scaring me.

‘Oh.’ She shook out, ‘Nico.’

Her unusually pale face glowed under the moonlight, much like mama’s. It accentuated her wide eyes, filled with fear. I walked over, slowly.

‘Hey,’ she looked at my approaching figure. Carefully, I sat down on my bed, the cushions soft and inviting, making me realize just how sleepy I felt after all the events of the day. Bianca didn’t – couldn’t look me in the eye, why; I didn’t know. This had never happened before; the days I would stay awake, staring at her sleeping figures after particularly scary nightmares; they never did.

Slowly, her mouth moved, as if she wasn’t even the one talking, ‘I…’ a pause. ‘I had a nightmare.’

Startled, I searched her eyes; she didn’t look up. Nightmares – like mine?

‘Bi, I-‘

‘No. forget it.’ Her sudden harsh tone bewildered me, as she plopped down back onto her bed and turned her back to me; her walls up and the doors locked, with no way to enter. And I knew, this was the end of the conversation: her shutting me out.

I get up, waking towards the closet next to my bed, taking out my favorite pajama bottoms, a large, brown one, keeping my sweater on. Making my way back to bed, I lay down on my stomach at first, then change to laying on my back and stare at Bianca’s back; of its rise and fall.

‘I have nightmares too.’

The rise and fall stop – _oddio, did I just kill my sister?_ – luckily, starting back to their movements seconds later. Slowly, Bianca turns, looking me in the face, her black hair glowing white under the moonlight seeping through the window.

‘You… do?’

I nod. Silent envelopes us, only the faint sounds from outside coming to my ears. Bianca looks to be deep in thought, like’s choosing what to say next.

‘Of what?’

‘I don’t know’ I didn’t know how to describe it to her.

Silence.

‘I’m in a desert, and – and…’ she stutters out. I keep watching her. ‘Then it’s blue and white – like, _really_ white, I can’t see for a while and then – then I’m in a garden… _Cazza_ …‘ a hand, harsh on her skin rubs on her face, her shaking her head with the frantic rubbing of her hand.

Silence.

‘I have different ones – they’re always different, and, uh… There’s this cliff one, I’m on a really high cliff – you – you’re with me and some other people I don’t know… I don’t really remember. There’s this – brown flash? Then I wake up.’

She nods. Silence, again, as we stare at each other from our positions.

‘Does company help?’

I look at her with a question; a question of if and hope. ‘ _Credo di si_ … Yes.’

She nods again, then, ‘We can sleep next to each other, if that helps you.’

I supress laugh to her wording, knowing that she’s also scared, but too grave to express her emotions directly. It’s always been this way, ever since we were kids: Bianca, too uncomfortable to directly express any emotion and me having to understand her and the meaning behind her words. Thinking of the past, I felt giddy, like I was six again and crawling into Bi’s bed to share my biscuits with her as I show her my flower collection. Careful to my asleep leg, I get up, walking to her; she moves backwards, making room for me and I slip into the covers, facing her.

It’s times like these that I’m happy to have my sister; because I know that when everything goes downhill, Bianca will be by my side, ready to take the world on, together.

Everything is silent as my body finally acknowledges my drowsiness, melting into the bed like the piece of a puzzle. I glance at Bianca and her closed eyes.

‘Bi?’

She hums.

‘Do you know who Edina is?’

At this, she furrows her eyebrows. ‘Edina?’

Something fearful settles onto my stomach. I had played with Edina in front of Bianca many times. She knew who she was.

‘ _Si_ , Edina. Mrs. Milo’s daughter.’

Bianca’s eyes open, confusion evident on her face, ‘Edin- oh! Edina Miloslav?’

Eagerly, I nod. ‘I thought I was going crazy! Mrs. Milo started crying when I brought her up, and I was so confused…’ the words died down on my tongue as Bianca’s eyes widen with each word, sleep vanished from her system. ‘Nico…’

‘Huh? What?’

‘Edina died years ago.’

Lightning booms ahead.

‘She died in that accident – remember? With the police? You were seven at the time, if I recall.’

The room is illuminated by the flash of the lightning, striking several times as Bianca’s words register to my head.

‘Mrs. Miloslav was devastated. The topic’s a sore spot for her; she’s still recovering, is my guess.’

_Edina is dead._

I was playing with her an hour ago.

_She died when I was seven._

That’s impossible.

I don’t know when the rain had started; when the lightning had gotten so frequent illuminating the room with flashes, striking too close to our house for my liking. The constant sound of the heavy rain, the stars, the moon, Bianca’s face-

_Edina’s face._

The memories flow into my head so suddenly I’m caught off guard: Memories, memories of Edina’s too-pale face, her blue coloured mouth, too unnatural to be true, her eye bags – her sickly form. How mama nor Bianca had ever greeted her when she came over, how I had never seen Mrs. Milo acknowledge her own daughter.

How confused Edina had looked today. How confused mama had looked; how miserable Mrs. Milo had looked upon bringing up her daughter’s name.

_Her dead daughter._

Edina Miloslav is dead, was dead – should be dead, yet I had seen her today and every other day for years.

The incident with the police. Was that why they scared me so much today, before the red eyed man came in? Did I subconsciously know they were trouble, because I knew what they had done to Edina – the ‘accident’- years ago?

But I saw someone who was supposed to be dead. That’s impossible.

What if all of this was a dream? What if everyone was dead? Am I seeing ghosts? The red eyed man; was he a ghost too?

No, that couldn’t be. The police acknowledged him; he gave me an envelope, mama knows about it. So, what’s going on? Is Edina really dead?

A chill ran down my spine. The police, mama, Edina’s wobbly knees and pale eyes, the envelope, the red eyed man, the Chrysanthemum…

The Chrysanthemum.

The memory of Edina dropping the white flower to the ground starts playing in my mind, it laying on the ground of the kitchen.

‘Nico…?’

I don’t even realize I’ve sat up, my body moving on its own accord, automatically. ‘I…’ my throat feels dry. I can feel Bianca’s stare on the side of my face. ‘I forgot my flower in the kitchen.’

‘Alright.’

***

The corridors look menacing with the storm brewing up in the sky, the stars are clouded and the house glows with the thunder. I ignore the fact that I had just seen a ghost.

Because that’s what Edina is, right? A ghost, I mean.

But how did I see her?

I shake my head. I’m grieving the death of someone who’s been dead for three years now.

I should be scared, I know that, but I can’t help but acknowledge the slight excitement in my chest. I had seen a ghost, how cool is that?

Lightning keeps booming outside, as if someone had angered God. At that thought, another one booms, a little too close to home for comfort.

I tread lightly through the corridor, passing by the living room, and, _Dio_ , it was always the living room that weird things happened, wasn’t it?

There, in the living room is mama, sitting on the armchair pushed close to the blazing fireplace.

The fire danced around, small bits of it managing to escape the fireplace and falling down uselessly on the floor, like a peck They dance around in mama’s chestnut eyes, giving them a crimson glow, like a fire of passion in her eyes. Her face is red and orange, the colours of the sunset, the sun, the fire and that of the red eyed man; hair as brown as her eyes, loosely tied and tossed over her shoulder. She’s glancing down at the dancing flames and for the first time in years, I can decipher the emotions splayed on her face.

Anger, love and fear.

I stand far from her, watching mama as the flames of passion engulf her eyes and she closes them, rubbing her face with her hand, the other one hanging from the arm of the small couch. I make sure not to get too close: she always noticed me when I did. Whenever I asked her, she would jokingly tell me how cold it became when I came close.

Lost in thought, I notice something else.

How the flames were holding up despite there seemingly being no coal.

The envelope I had given her is set ablaze, burning with all its might as fires emerge from it.

Mama had burned the envelope.

The envelope was open, indicating that mama had opened and read the letter in it before lighting it up. I stare at the scene in front of me, every thought of the day vanishing from my mind as I feel like an intruder to this private moment.

Suddenly, mama is up in her seat, rashly reaching for the flower vase next to her, she plucks out the flowers in it and hurls the water in the vase towards the fire, extinguishing it. She fell down on her knees, ignoring the disaster, the mess around her. I take a step forward, ready to embrace her. That is when mama, with shaking hands – her whole body is shaking – reaches out for the once blazing envelope, hugging it to her chest.

She cradles it like a baby, her face grave and her hair messy, coming out of the loose ponytail. I take a shaky step back.

That night, I don’t mention what happened to mama, just like how I hadn’t mentioned how Bianca knew the name of my flower that evening. I take my flower from the kitchen and fall into a slumber next to my sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it's a little confusing.
> 
> Also there may be some mistakes(mainly with tenses) in the last half of the chapter because I got too lazy to proofread that part

**Author's Note:**

> Funfact: Chrysanthemum is a flower that symbolizes death :D
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome mainly because I'm writing this fic to get experience in writing before I publish a real book and this is the first fic I've ever written.
> 
> Leave Kudos? Maybe?


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